


Bitter (Sweet) Truth

by LoneChestnutTree



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Floriography, Jealous Chris, Language of Flowers, M/M, One Shot, Popular Leon, formal party, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 23:04:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoneChestnutTree/pseuds/LoneChestnutTree
Summary: The B.S.A.A. throws a Gala celebrating another year of successful missions. Chris Redfield thinks it's unnecessary but he still attends, hoping he could simply make it through the night without complications.But then someone shows up and starts to make a show of themselves. And suddenly, it's anything but simple.Aloe Vera - Bitterness





	Bitter (Sweet) Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, how good it feels to finally finish something worth publishing. 
> 
> Helloooooo, it's been quite a few months since I've posted and I want to say sorry!  
> A lot has changed, Chreon has grown several times its size when I first joined so !!!! I'm pumped for that! And also, I've been talking to a couple of people from here on Twitter and it feels really good to finally let out all my Chreon feelings with so much people. (I don't even know if y'all know me on Twitter but I can see the tweets and art several of you post. ♡)
> 
> Anyway, in this fic, I had the Re6 timeline in mind. And I'm assuming that in this, Chris and Leon have barely spent time with each other prior to the fic. Apart from Claire being their bridge of communication, they have never really spent time alone. Sooooo...what better way to portray that than Chris being frustrated/confused/bitter to see that Leon isn't acting as the person Chris thought he was!
> 
> English isn't my first language.  
> Constructive criticism welcomed.  
> No beta.  
> And all mistakes are mine. ♡

He knows, as if some holy being spoke to him, that this was a bad idea.

  
The night is abundant, and he doesn’t bother thinking about how this event took shape in the first place. As far as he knew, the B.S.A.A. was designed for _(He wouldn’t boldly call it war.)_ defense. In the past, that’s been what it was established for. Or so Chris thought, until someone cooked-up an idea that they start a tradition of Galas to celebrate another year of—not dying. Well, that’s what they promised it for. But Chris thinks it’s just a way to gather every ‘powerful’ person in the country into one ballroom, shoved into expensive suits, under a grand chandelier, and a grander, nearly explosive tension in the air as a few entitled men and women whisper with each other about the lives of the rich and the not so-rich.

  
He has only been here for almost an hour and he already had to navigate his way out of a huddled group of elite men murmuring about the, ‘Luxury of the internet being abused by lower class people.’ If they saw that sharp side-eye Chris sent their way, that’s because they were meant to see it.

  
Chris may be a lot of things, however, being a glad-hander is not one of them.

  
But he has to give credit where credit is due, because for starters, the venue looked something that’s straight from an artist’s dream. A classical baroque ballroom with a high, dome, ceiling and a chandelier that is nearly half the size of the dome itself, hanging proudly as the centerpiece of the room. It begged for the immediate attention of anyone who pushes in from those white cedar doors.

  
As he hovers around the event’s open bar, across the room is what he assumes are the two windowed doors leading out into the balcony, also fittingly painted with creamy ivory, as the rest of the building is.

And for hours, this is where he wants to be. Leaning back on the bar’s counter, ignoring the fact that it was basically forcing him to socialize by _(Conveniently)_ not having chairs to sit on, and looking out the balcony, already knowing that before the night ends, he’ll probably end up out there, on his own, reveling in the cool, night, air.

  
But then—a shift of ambience occurs in the form of a group buzzing over something a few feet away from him. A shift of conversation, Chris thinks, but it’s actually more like a crackle of tension in the air because as the gossiping strengthens, the crowd near the doors began to make way. And the person who is responsible for its fall out is the arrival of one Leon Kennedy.

  
_Leon S. Kennedy, Government agent extraordinaire, One-man army, actually naturally blond, and judging by the crowd’s reaction—Moses himself._

  
Chris has never rocked the ‘I styled my hair to make it look like I didn’t.’ look. Nor has he ever boldly worn a suit that was as striking as the one Leon is wearing, it hugs his narrowed waist and widens his shoulders, as light seems to bounce back and shimmer to emphasize the eye-catching color of it, deep blue, reminding Chris of a cloudless night sky. And in the ways Chris is held back with interacting with anyone, Leon works the room better than any politician running for senate can.

  
He looks at the flute of champagne tucked between his thumb and forefinger before finishing off the remaining liquid inside and wishing he had asked for something stronger. Two glasses of champagne isn’t nearly enough to stand the fact that Leon fits right in with everyone right now.

  
The man moves with an effortless, almost weightless grace, moving from one person to the other with the fluidity of a waterfall, continuous, unwavering, and if Chris was as honest a man as he thinks he is, he would go as far as to think, that like a waterfall, the man looks _breathtaking._

  
He is in his element, whereas Chris is nowhere near his own.

  
Leon was on his fourth handshake when Chris decided it was time to look away. He didn’t half-heartedly tame his hair for him to run his fingers through it this early on, so he tweaks with his bronze cufflinks instead, looking toward the bartender, and thinking of getting that stronger drink he’s been thinking about. Chris raises two fingers toward the young woman working the bar, “It’s not that I’m not liking the complimentary champagne—“Chris said, smiling, “But do you happen to have something a bit stronger?”

  
Confusion and intrigue flickers through the woman’s face before she settles for, ‘Casual-professional’ or in other, longer, words, _‘I have a hint why you’re asking me this but since I’m just doing my job, and you’re a known employee of the organization that hired me, I’m not going to say anything_.’

  
“Right away, Mr. Redfield.” She says obligingly.

  
“Thank you.” He replies.

  
The woman sets down a whiskey glass in front of him before producing a tall, label-less bottle of whiskey, and filling it almost halfway and diluting it with a splash of water. Chris nods approvingly before she slides the glass toward him.

  
“Enjoy your drink.” She says, as she smiles at him with a bit too much smugness to feign ignorance.

  
_I surely will,_ Chris thinks but doesn’t say, so instead he nods and turns back toward the crowd.

  
And this time, Leon is nowhere to be found. The bobbing head of dirty blond from earlier is gone from the swarm of people around him, as seemingly everyone around gathered toward their part of the wide room, and if Chris focuses enough, he could probably name each clique that have now taken space amongst the crowd.

  
The Agents, The Soldiers, The Head-Soldiers, The News Correspondents, The Celebrities who for some reason are at an event about fighting B.O.W’s, and The Dreaded Politicians. The last one, unfortunately, were the ones he side-eyed earlier.

  
He drinks his whiskey for the first time, making the liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing, and just then did he spot the familiar dirty blond of Leon’s hair, and it takes him a second to process that the man is heading toward him, and by the man’s elbow is a woman whom his arms are linked with.

Okay, it doesn’t bother him, this was a Gala after all, they were allowed to bring dates. Chris just— _didn’t see it fit to bring one._

  
As they started to walk closer, Chris sets his glass down by his side before instinctively crossing his arms, “Kennedy.” He says plainly, as if he didn’t know Leon even was present, “Redfield.” Leon says. “Wish I could say it was a shock to see you here, considering, y’know, this was your company’s idea.” The woman by his side chuckles, and Chris finds it hard to look like he is taking this all in stride.

  
“Someone up there thought I’d be good to change things up, strengthen the connections with allies.” Chris says. “Besides, It’s good to not always be wearing fatigues once in a while, right?” he finishes, smiling convincingly before reaching a hand out for the woman by Leon’s side to shake, “I’m not sure we’ve met.”  
No, he tells himself, he still wasn’t out for crowd pleasing.

He is just…taking a page out of Leon’s book and annotating it.

  
The blank look Leon is sporting unnerves him, but not as much as the languid smile he follows it with that does not quite reaches his eyes. The woman glances toward Leon briefly before lifting her unoccupied hand and taking Chris’ in a firm shake, “Marian Alcott, Mr. Redfield. And it is an honor to meet you.” She smiles genuinely, and Chris knew it would be a deliberate effort not to like her.

  
She seems poised, put-together, as if she knows what she’s going into. A soldier, perhaps?

  
The tension from Chris’ shoulders lessens, and it was surprisingly not because of Leon, “Like-wise,” he says, meaning what he says this time.

  
When Chris turns to look back at Leon, it only occurs to him that the man has been silently watching their interaction the entire time, his face, like before, was devoid of anything Chris can call readable. Well, not until Leon arches an eyebrow and spots the whiskey glass on his side, “Why, the champagne not treating you right?” he flourishes, too smug, which is saying something, especially for him.

  
Marian lolls her head at Chris, as if they’re sharing an inside joke telepathically, he pretends he doesn’t see it before he reaches for his glass and polishes the entire thing in one go, “Tell me about it.” He says when the whiskey burn isn’t too bad on his tonsils.

  
Leon hums before flicking his eyes toward the bartender behind him, “Champagne. Two.” He says smoothly as Chris half-turns to ask for another glass of whiskey as well.  
And when he saw that the bartender nearly tops off his glass without even diluting it, he kept to himself.

  
When Leon got their drinks, he looks at Chris, still looking as he hands the other glass flute to his date.

  
Leon eyes the warm whiskey he is holding. Chris sees, in detail, him lifting a hand toward the glass, picking it up delicately by the rim, urging it away from him and holding it toward the bright lights; as if inspecting it, and before Chris can blink, the man sips on it unhurriedly before handing it back to him, wiping away the remaining amber residue on his lips with a swipe of his thumb.

  
“Have a good night.” Leon says before turning away and leaving Chris to deal with the aftermath.

Chris should think, should convince himself that it takes a lot more than that to shock him speechless but he has to admit, _what the hell just happened?_

  
To say that the way Leon is acting is weirding him out is not enough, this…is not how they act with each other. They’ve always been professional but friendly, a couple of ribbing here and there but they aren’t the type of people who does…what the hell it was that Leon did. Although, this has been the first time they’ve been around each other without Claire. So maybe, this is just how Leon is, and the persona Chris thinks he’s playing is just him being so relaxed by the thought that he’s not elbow deep in gore and grime at the moment.

  
Maybe, but does it explain why he had to make a power move on Chris like that? No. Does it explain how self-satisfied he looked after he saw Chris’ comically confused face? Not even close.

  
But no one should take it from him, he surely isn’t the paragon of relaxation. Like for example, he’s at a once a year formal event and he’s spent most of it idly standing around, drinking his piss-warm whiskey, as his thoughts stretches thirty different ways about someone’s _(Harmless?)_ gesture.

  
If Claire ever found out that she spent hours looking up the right shade of forest green for his suit for nothing, she would be royally pissed. He had to handpick his cufflinks, collar-pin and tie _(All bronze-brown for some reason.)_ He had to stand in front of a mirror for nearly half an hour while the tailor got his measurements right.

And here he is, wasting those three days of work by being a conspiracy theorist weirdo. Maybe he could saddle right in with those News Correspondents on the corner. Chris has seen a few articles, he has a clue what they would talk about, may it be about alien B.O.W.’s, a looming apocalypse they like to call as the virus breakouts to end all virus breakouts, or the government possibly experimenting with the burnt corpse of Albert Wesker. The last one is not real. He made sure of it.

  
He sips his whiskey slowly, thinking of finally leaving his space from the bar. The night wasn’t as young as before, and this whole thing isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The food was nice. The bar is excellent. And the decorations are too formal for their own good.

  
Okay, maybe the guests aren’t the most in touch with the other percentage of the population, but it’s not like he’s being forced to share their ideas, right?

  
He leaves the area to walk toward his left, to where the majority of people are, drifts of conversation passes him by as he maneuvers toward the gold-clothed tables and chairs that encircles a wide area of the floor. And guessing by the four women string quartet that now stepped on an elevated stage, the chair he was about to sit on will give him a good vantage point of the dance _(In this case, waltz)_ floor.

  
Chris watches as the viola and cello players takes a spot on the two front corners of the stage before the two violinists stands on the back. All seemed to hold their breaths as the first few chords of a viola fills the air, followed by the low thrum of a cello, and lastly, by the serene melody of the violins. The sound bounces off the hardwood floors and into the crowd who is quietly watching the harmonious beginnings of what sounds like a melody that is a mix of the typical 1-2-3 waltz and a slow folk song.

  
One-by-one, people began taking their place, every couple steps in time with the languid rhythm, no one at all hinted their confusion with the erratic pace changes in the song, and for some reason, Chris takes to watching the quartet instead.

  
From the furthest corner of the crowd, emerge two people that Chris could only vaguely see from the side of his vision, but then again, there is no denying that blond hair. He huffs out from his nose, leaning back on his chair, as the object of his confusion enters near his periphery.

  
The melody swells, and Chris doesn’t have to glance to know that the newly arrived pair is managing to catch the eyes of everyone around. He does not want to make sure if the man can sway his hips to the slow waves of the song, he does not need it in life to see the man glide effortlessly with a sly smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

  
Therefore, he takes a big gulp of his drink…and looks anyway.

  
And how wrong he was to have thought that the centerpiece of the room was actually the chandelier, when Leon, the man he seemingly knows nothing and everything about is perfecting the waltz _(Or at least Chris thinks he does.)_ with a different man’s expression on his face, airy, effortless, seemingly not for Chris to see.

  
It—unnerves him to think that maybe their barely built up friendship would end with this, Chris thinking he’s pining for the man just because he’s more charismatic than he thought. It’s nothing, surely, it’s probably because the man managed to flip his view of him in just one night. Or Chris is just being Chris and when he tells Claire this she would call it as just Leon’s typical behavior. It’s not like he actually fully knows Leon. They barely even see each other.

  
Oh.

  
Oh, maybe that's it. Meeting him, both seeming like an enigma to each other, and then Chris suddenly sees him in a different angle that doesn’t involve dirt streaked faces and awkward, clipped, small-talk. It makes sense, or at least he can convince to himself it does.

  
As Chris continues to watch, glass of whiskey now forgotten, Leon switches his and his date’s position so now he is looking straight at him; a flicker of a smirk touches the corners of his lips as they make eye contact.

  
_Just then, a runaway thought cuts in,_  
_If Leon were a Lynx, he would be a cornered Rabbit._

His jaw tightens, and he can already feel what he thinks is the early on-set of an alcohol headache. His core feels warm, almost too warm to the touch. His mouth, like the loss of control he’s currently experiencing, is drying up.

  
Then, the music stops. The high ringing of violins lingers in the air, and Chris is still looking. The cello hums and picks up where the violins left off, and still, he could not look away.

  
Because on the gleaming, polished, hardwood floors, a stranger with a familiar face glides across the surface without a trace of the person Chris seemed to think he was.

  
He could go about it and chase his own tail all night but the truth is, simply, bitterly—the truth is he sees a world he is not a part of. Chris thought he had a hold of something. Somehow, somewhere along tonight, it slipped away. Leon isn’t only his hardships, he loathes how he can only fully grasp that now. However, Chris notes from afar, this is not Leon either, is it?

  
He thumbs open the middle button of his suit before finally looking away. _(For his own state of mind)_ He then looks around the room as if forgetting where he was; as awareness slips from his consciousness like sand.

  
Chris feels himself stand, before taking one, last, passing glance toward Leon, and losing himself in the crowd.

  
The hollow thumping of his dress shoes creates a continuous sound that reminds him of rocks thudding against granite. And, don’t get him wrong, he is consciously aware where the exit is: the tallest wall on the left of the stage. In his line of career, it pays to know where the safest exits are at all times, it’s an ingrained habit he can never shake off.

This time, however, he finds himself near the bar again. He stops for barely a second before crossing the threshold from the bar to the windowed doors across from it, not bothering to school his face into non-hostile neutrality.

_Never has he seen so many grown, powerful, men slink back at the sight of him._

  
He reaches the double doors, clutching the doorknob indefinitely as the lights from above highlighted a painful awareness to what he was trying to do. He doesn’t bother making sure who’s looking before pushing his way inside the balcony.

  
And—the night air shocks him, making his breath hitch and the warmth of his face cool immediately.

  
He steps forward as the doors shut behind him with an audible click. Leaving behind the glitz and splendor, the high, melodious tune of the string quartet, and instead he exchanges it with an empty, lonely, balcony.

Chris steps forward belatedly, eyeing the marble railing that is up to his waist, as a golden beam of light from inside poured through the doors, making him step around a puddle of water to his right that glistens, looking like a glittery rabbit hole into another dimension.

  
Out here, the glide of his shoes against marble is in tune with the hurrying wind. His fingers hover over the marble surface of the railing, as he sets his palm on it fully, feeling as it cools his heated skin.

  
And on the balcony, atop the railing, to Chris’ left, is a potted plant.

  
He ambles next to it, and only seeing from the moon’s illumination, scattered white spots on the tall, green, spikes of its leaves.

He reaches out his left hand to touch it, feeling the gel inside move under his fingers as his palm strokes over the dull thorns on its sides.

  
Behind him, the music, now only a muted thump in the air, as he pulls his hand back to rest his elbows on the railing, leaning his torso forward and slouching his shoulders. And above, past the cacophony of tree foliage, is the breathtaking sky.

  
A patchwork of cement gray clouds covered nearly half of the dark night sky, looking like the first rise of smoke from a chimney.

  
The air rushes again, moving through the trees and heading toward him, carrying the distinct smell of damp earth and foliage. Chris exhales once before running his fingers through his hair tiredly, he knows how he ended up out here, he’s not tipsy nor drunk enough for it to slip his mind. It’s just—fuzzy to focus on why he chose to hole up like this. He could have left all together, but he didn't and that screws with his mind. Because why, instead of leaving, did he choose to only distance himself from it, and not even that far, just on the building’s balcony to be painfully exact.

  
The music loudens for half of a second before settling back into muteness.

  
The sound of a lock clicking lingers in the air, immediately followed by footsteps that were more confident than Chris’.

  
His barely formed nerves scatter again, not into shards and pieces but into fine, gritty, powder. He can feel his fine-tuned awareness heighten. It’s quiet, broken only by a car roaring in the distance, making its headlight pass through the trees in stripes. Behind him, he hears a wet splash followed by a man muttering a curse.

  
Turning around, he sees Leon looking down his left pant leg in frustration, “900 dollar suit. Defeated by water. Great.” He says. Chris should’ve been hightailing it by now, but he doesn’t want to.

Because Chris is a lot of things. And addressing his fears is the best of them

  
“Hi,” Leon says as he lifts his leg to shake out the excess water, “Was wondering where you are.” He smiles as Chris turns away and hopes he isn’t THAT good of an actor.

  
Chris replies with a hum as he continued to look out into the dark forest.

Leon circles around the puddle to stand on his side, the potted plant now between them, “I thought you left.” He says. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Chris pauses. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he says as he glances toward him before turning back to the forest. He can’t look for too long, what he dreaded to see was the look of opaqueness on Leon’s face from earlier, it feels unwelcomed out here, in an atmosphere he built by himself.

“I—don’t know.”

Chris hums again.

  
The wind delivers the sound of cars passing by on the winding road not too far from them, and the hoots of owls, and the trees shaking ever so slightly. But nothing can overpower the deafening silence Chris has fallen over them.

  
In the distance, a cicada buzzes and joins their orchestra.

  
And next to him, Leon’s shoes scuffles on the marbled floors with a squelch. Chris risks a glance at him and sees him leaning on the railing with his arms crossed, eyes trained on the far wall of the building, opposite of Chris’ view.

  
Chris looks and pauses, turning away before looking again. He slides a palm over his face smoothly before huffing, “Where’s your date?” he asks.

  
Leon looks at him and he even has the courtesy to look like he knows what Chris is talking about, “It wasn’t a date.” He says. “I volunteered to go get champagne for her and her friend.”

  
Chris narrows his eyes, and is about to ask him if he thinks he is an absolute moron to fall for that.

  
“I figured the bar looked extra pleasing, so I—went and checked it out.” Leon turns away from his gaze, making the moon’s rays fall on the side of his face. “I don’t even like champagne.”

  
Chris grits his teeth before breathing out his nose slowly; he’s done with conclusions ending up as dead ends. He turns around to lean back on the railing too, leaving the view of the forest behind him.

  
“Is that why you took a drink out of mine?”  
“Yes.”  
“Seemed a bit unnecessary, you could’ve just asked for your own.”  
“Well, I was told the bartender only serves specific drinks to specific people, so…”

“So.” Chris says firmly in response.

“So,” Leon scratches the back of his neck before sighing, “I’m sorry for being…like that.” He says.

“Like what?” Chris asks innocently.

This time, it was Leon’s turn to look unsure, “Like, all that.” He gestures toward the ballroom helplessly.

“I want to know why.” Chris says, looking at the man next to him.

“Maybe I—“ Leon starts and stops, “Maybe I just wanted to get your attention, maybe I thought I could only get it if I noticeably changed how I was to you.”

“I don’t believe that. What happened is a part of you too; you can’t conjure that out of nowhere, not for tonight, and not for me.”

Leon nods and looks at him, “I’m starting to think it didn’t work.”

 _It didn’t. Because you’ve always had my attention, Chris distantly thinks_.

“It did work. Because now I’m here, missing the party, thinking if my place in people’s lives is as firm as I think it is. You did it.” He looks at him and realizes that it should’ve sounded more venomous, bitter to no end, but coming from him, it just sounded exasperatingly fond. _(Because it is.)_

Leon chuckles before smoothing the front of his suit self-consciously. He looks at Chris once, smiling, before timidly crossing the space to stand in front of him, “So…” He trails off.

“So…” Chris says, thumbing the sleeves of Leon’s suit and gently urging him closer, the way he wanted to all night. The way he wanted to maybe even then.

Leon steps toward him, a streak of a car’s headlight passes through the lines of trees to highlight them both. And inside, the muted thumping of the quartet slows.

Leon leans into Chris fully, trapping him between his lax and firm body, as the cool surface of the railing digs unto his lower back. Leon settles his chin on Chris’ shoulder, aligning their chest. His heart thundered from his ribcage and Chris has to wonder if the other man is aware of it. He lifts his hand to settle it on Leon’s waist, gripping him.

“Although,” Chris says, pulling away to look at him, “You have to explain to Claire why I spent most of tonight moping.”

Leon looks at him before nodding, “Well, I just have to tell her that it was because of something really important. Like, wide scale important.” He smiles before tilting his head, “So important that it could change your life.”

“I have a feeling that it will.” Chris smirks as he catches Leon’s chin with the tips of his fingers, angling his lips with his and closing the distance. As they kiss, Leon deflates in his arms, mouth opening against his, as Leon’s hand settles on his jaw to travel lower and slip under his white dress shirt to settle on the base of his neck, near his collarbone.  
  
This time, Leon pulls away, massaging the skin of Chris’ shoulder before looking up at him and making a face, “You have to appreciate my commitment though, I had to glad-hand my way through those Politician bastards.” He says, “Nearly punched one on the face the minute he opened his greasy mouth."

Chris chuckles before nodding, “Glad to have you back.” He says.

A few seconds pass by, neither of them moving, and from inside, the music seemed to reach its crescendo, erupting all at once and settling into nothingness as quick as it had come. Silence blankets but it does not suffocate, as all Chris could bother to think about is the true abundance of tonight and how blessed he is to be here for it.

_He saw a world he was not a part of. But he has more time than just one night to learn all about it._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love flowers, plants, and floriography so much. They have always been the source for inspiration for me. So, I got myself out of my writing slump and made this. (Who knows, this might even be a collection/series.)
> 
> Songs I listened to on loop while writing this (If anyone's interested)
> 
> Leonard Cohen - Take This Waltz  
> Antonin Dvorak - Waltzes, Op. 54 (String quartet)


End file.
